


Back By Morning

by NoHolds



Series: Come Morning [1]
Category: The Last of Us, The last of us left behind
Genre: F/F, Fireflies, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1211575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoHolds/pseuds/NoHolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marlene has been called many things. A monster, a terrorist, a great leader, a good friend. But something that everyone agreed on was that she always kept her promises. </p><p>She's always expected the same of others.</p><p>Elsewhere, the newest firefly is breaking a promise that is the furthest thing from her mind.</p><p>[OLD- ON INDEFINITE HIATUS IF NOT CANCELLED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The previous evening (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Run in parallel with Gone by Morning (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1220215)
> 
> this portion centres on Marlene's point of view. Some mentions of blood later on.

The girl’s name was Riley Abel. She was very young and very brave and very, very headstrong. She’d fought to get to me and fought to get me to listen, and I’d told her she’d die if she didn’t fuck off and go home.

Well, maybe that was putting it too nicely.

I'd tied her up and threatened her with a gun and still she'd come back, and that kind of resolve warrants recognition.

So I’d had her dog tag made. It was bright and new, the only dents were the letters of her name stamped into the soft metal. It'd been a long time since I'd seen a brand new tag- the ones on even the newest fireflies are worn dark by the years, dented and bent, more scratch then surface. We don't get many new recruits, anymore. 

Truth is, I can’t really say no to this girl. We’re dying out. The fireflies are on the brink of extinction, and a girl like Riley, a girl with all the conviction I used to have, she could turn the tide.

There was only one hang-up.

It was another girl- one I’d promised to keep safe. Riley’s best friend, who’d follow her anywhere- even into the line of fire. I couldn’t risk that. I might not be much anymore, but at least I kept my promises.

I’d thought for a good long time about what to do- how to keep Ellie safe and Riley with us. I knew all too well how dangerous a friendship could be in this world. It’s what trapped me with the Ellie problem in the first place.

Knowing what I know about these two, there was only one way to keep Ellie from following her friend- and it was to move Riley somewhere that she _couldn’t_ be followed. Another city, where they couldn’t talk, where (I hoped) they’d drift apart and forget about each other. 

            And now Riley is sitting outside my office, waiting for my verdict. I can hear her fidgeting through the door, impatient, anxious, hoping only for my approval, for her acceptance into the fireflies. When I reach for the intercom I hesitate for only a moment.

“Come on in, Riley.”

She walks in with her back ramrod straight and her shoulders squared, hands jammed deep into pockets. She looks me straight in the eye, all cocky teenager and trying-too-hard.

“Relax.”

If anything, the girl gets more tense, jaw tightening around an uncomfortable smile, glancing away to stare at her feet.

“And welcome to the fireflies.”

Riley’s eyes flicker to mine, this desperate hope flashing across her face, and God she’s _young,_ she’s _so_ young _._

I pass over her dog tag, and the girl _lights up,_ still professional, still at attention, but all smiles and bright eyes, holding the tag like it’s some precious thing, something delicate to be cradled and treasured.

She reached up to fasten it around her neck, and I bite through my conscience to deliver the news.

“You’re transferring to your post in the morning. Be here at 7 sharp.”

Riley’s hands freeze at the clasps of the chain, and she’s looking up at me with questions in her eyes.

I pretend not to notice.

“We’re moving you to another city where they need reinforcements, so have your bags packed.”

I don’t meet her eyes, but I can see her fighting with herself, see her bite her lip and ball her fists.

“Bullshit.” She says, then winces.

“Excuse me?”

Riley flinches, but she doesn’t really _back down,_ just squares her jaw and takes a deep breath.

“I said its bullshit. I know you need reinforcements in this city, you know I have friends here. You can’t just up and move me like that, it’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Then give back the tag, Abel. You can transfer, or you can leave right now.”

Dead silence. pin-drop silence. When I look back at Riley, I see something in her break.

Her eyes drop. Her shoulders curl in a little. Her eyes go wet, but tears don't spill over, and despite myself I'm impressed.

“Okay,” she says, after a long moment. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

When I dismiss her, She lets herself out, head high and feet dragging. 

When I’m sure she’s out of range, I radio the guards.

“If you see a girl sneaking out tonight, don’t stop her. She’s got my leave. Notify me if she’s not back by morning”

Knowing what I know about Riley, she’ll try to leave and say goodbye.  

And hell, who am I to stop her? In this world, few enough of us get to leave on our own terms, let alone say goodbye.

Besides, I was certain that she’d be back by morning.


	2. The First Morning (Chapter 1)

            I wake up at five to a note shoved under my door. The writing is messy and slanting, ink smeared by a lazy hand.

_Marlene-_

_The girl left like you said, and she’s still gone. You said to tell you if she didn’t come back, but I’m off duty now. It’s around three. Told the next shift to write you a note if anything changed._

            That was fine. Riley still had two hours to get back. I read over old letters and wait.

 

            At five thirty, I have breakfast and watch out the windows. She still has an hour and a half to get here.

 

            At six, I make the trip to Riley’s room, to make sure she didn’t sneak back unnoticed. He bed’s neatly made, her clothing folded into a duffle bag. Surely she would have brought her clothing if she were planning on staying gone. She’d be back. She had an hour.

 

            At six thirty, I’m back in my office, watching the door. It’s pathetic. What do I care about one irresponsible teenager showing up late?

            I remind myself that she’s not late yet. She still has half an hour.

 

            At seven, I tell the man on watch to alert me if he sees a teenage girl, and I go back to sleep.

 

            At seven fifteen, I admit that I can’t sleep and pace, pace, pace around my room, wondering why I trusted someone so obviously headstrong, wondering why I _care_ so much. Fireflies disappear every day, most without anyone to remember that they ever lived, without a so much as an unmarked grave.

 

            At eight in the morning, I call in a favour with a contact at the boarding school to ask if _they’ve_ seen anything.

           

            At nine, the boarding school contact tells me that one of their students has gone missing too, that she left all her clothing behind, that no one had seen her since the previous day, that she had a history of disappearing, of making trouble with a girl called Riley.

 

            At ten, I try and put the issue out of my mind. If Riley’s run away, then she’s run away. If she’s coming back, she’ll come back when she wants to and no sooner.

 

            At eleven in the morning, I pace around the facility and ask if anyone has seen Riley, if anyone knows where she is. A few people saw her leave, but no one’s seen her come back. I catch a few people giving me funny looks, but they all shrink back when I meet their eyes.  

 

            At eleven thirty, I go back to her room and look for clues as to why she’s still gone.

 

            At twelve, I find a wad of crumpled paper shoved under her bed.

            Feeling pathetic for letting this bizarre concern spiral so far out of control, I toss the note on the ground and turn to leave. 

 

            At twelve fourteen, I still haven’t left the girl’s room. I give in to temptation.

The paper’s been crumpled so much it’s soft at the edges, worn. The ink's smudged, and more words have been crossed out then written. 

_“Dear Ellie,_

_I didn’t mean anything I said before. I joined the Fireflies and they’re making me move to another city but I’ll write you if”_

The next few lines are scribbled out.

“ _I’m really sorry I was a jerk. I’m gonna miss you.”_

The ink here is smeared, like something got it wet, but it’s only unreadable because Riley had scribbled through the lines, pressing hard enough to tear the paper.

“ _I never told you how I really feel and I was going to but last-minute confessions are way to sappy for me and”_

The rest of the letter is scribbled out in another colour of ink, and at the bottom of the page Riley’s written

“ _Go and tell her yourself, you coward.”_ In a wide, messy hand. She’d pressed too hard with the pen here, and the paper’s bumpy and torn where the nib pushed through.

 

            At twelve thirty, I straighten and remind myself that I’m too old to care this much about one girl, that I’ve seen too much to be fussed about the disappearance of another Firefly.

I put the letter back where I found it and do my job. From what I’ve seen she intended to come back, and I’m not going to worry about something I can’t change.

           

            At eleven at night I tell the man on watch to tell me if Riley returns, and I go to sleep.

Maybe she needed an extra day. She’ll be back tomorrow, if she’s coming back.

 


	3. The Second Morning (Chapter 2)

I wake up to the sun filtering into my room, watery and grey like only spring sunlight can be.

There’s movement in the hall, and voices in the yard, which means I overslept.

Getting dressed takes less time then it did before the outbreak- when the choice is a dirty hoodie or a dirty hoodie, deciding what to wear isn’t an especially lengthy affair.

The only care I take is the minute to polish my dog tag, dirty water and vinegar and a greasy rag to keep the metal shining, and allegedly keep up morale, or so I’d been told by some weedy strategist from a couple years back.

He had died in a routine military raid, though, so maybe his advice wasn’t the most reliable in the world. But hell, hardly anyone's word is reliable anymore, and it’s become something of a daily ritual by now. I’m the leader of the goddamn Fireflies. I can afford thirty seconds to polish a bit of tin.

The guard outside my door salutes when I walk by.

“Marlene.”

I nod. “Any change with the girl?”

She shakes her head. “None that I’ve heard of.”

I shove the news to the back of my mind and join the other Fireflies in the mess hall. No use worrying about what I can’t change.

            It’s one of those days where everything goes by too fast to think, and I’m signing papers and giving orders and planning raids until noon, too busy with things that actually matter to worry about the girl.

            When everyone shuffles of to lunch, I finally have the chance to catch my breath, and when I take a seat the pathetic, grating _worry_ creeps back into my mind, an anxiety that has no place here. People die all the time. One missing girl- she might not even be dead- is hardly something to fuss over.

            At twelve thirty I find myself pacing, wondering, thinking that maybe the girl’s gotten into some trouble, thinking maybe I ought to send out a search party.

            At one PM lunch ends, and the responsibility of the Fireflies returns in a tide of rowdy, unwashed humanity, and the idea of a search party for the girl is pushed to the back of my mind by losses and new territory and search parties for things that actually matter.

            At seven the work day ends. It's dinner for the day shift and breakfast for the night shift, the only time in the day when all the Fireflies are together. 

            That dead analyst said it was important to socialize with the troops, but he’s dead, so I skip out on dinner (a bad habit I am loath to break) and return to my room, catching the first moments of total silence I’ve had since waking up.

            I read treaties and letters and ledgers and trade inventories (one handgun and some ammo missing from the weapon cache closest to Riley’s quarters) until the light coming through the window is too dim to see by, then I get up and watch the sunset, like I do every evening.

            That analyst probably would have said something about routine making you predictable, getting you killed. I say it’s hard to run a military group without some order, and my heart’s still beating.

            The rain’s stopped by now, and if I was a romantic I’d probably appreciate tonight’s sunset more, might say it was soft, might notice how it catches in the smoke and the clouds and turns the smog iridescent. I'm not a romantic, though.

            I wonder if the girl’s still in the city, if she can see the sunset. I wonder if she’s in any condition to be seeing the sunset, and shove the thought away. Riley was too tough to get killed.

            And too busy too waste time watching the sunset.

            Like I am.

            I pull down the blinds and light a candle and read until my eyes are crossing, lids heavy, then I crawl into my bed and welcome sleep.

            It will not come, no matter how I seek it.

I’ve killed too many people to count, and seen too many horrors to speak of, and never lost a minute of sleep about it.

            But this- this fucking _kid_ was keeping me up at night, worrying like some overbearing mother goose.

            Even as I acknowledge it as pathetic, a part of me worries.

What if she’s _not_ okay?

What if she _did_ run away?

I shake away the thoughts, absurdly glad none of the Fireflies can see me now.

I’m not exactly the picture of an unshakable leader at the moment. 

I flip the pillow over and content myself with the thought that the girl has a gun, and if you’re smart (which she was) and quick (Which she was) and you have a gun, it’s damn hard to get hurt in this city.

            As long as she only fired to defend herself, as long as she wasn’t distracted, Riley would be just fine, wherever she was.

Just fine.

 


	4. The Third Morning (Chapter 3)

        I wake up at 4 in the morning expecting peace and quiet-It’s too early for anyone else to be awake, and I’m looking forwards to waking up slowly for once.

        Instead I find static and radio chatter, a low hum of activity that can only mean one thing.

        A military raid.

        I shove myself out of bed, momentarily grateful for the bad habit that is sleeping in my clothing, and rap on the door.

“Raid?”

        The doors are old and the walls thin, and the reply comes clear as day.

“We got a tip off that they’re doing a sweep of the area first thing tomorrow.”

        I gather what I have into a bag prepared for just this purpose, and I’m out of the room in minutes.

“Go pack up.” I tell the guard at my door. “There’s nothing in there worth protecting anymore.”

        He nods and bustles away, all urgency and impatience.

 

        By Four fifteen, I’m jogging past the barracks to the mess hall, and when I pass the girl’s room I stop dead.

_She’s not coming back, Marlene. You’ve got people to worry about. People who are here right now._

        I look around at the bustle of people moving past, some panicked, packing to run and hide away for a day. It would be selfish to bring an extra bag. It would be selfish to take more space then I warrant.

        Most of Riley’s things are already packed neatly into a duffle bag- she was supposed to leave a few days ago. I gather the rest of her belongings and stuff them in, grabbing the bag and running to keep up with the crowd.

        Just in case she comes back. After all, it’s expensive and difficult to replace personal items in this day and age. If she comes back, it’ll be in our best interest not to have to find her new things.

        In the mess hall, there’s a rapidly growing pile of duffle bags, soon to be shuttled off to safe houses and hidey holes where the military- dense and always eager not to find anything- won’t look.

        The girl’s bag is covered in cartoonish drawings, sharpie scribbles of faces and animals. The name Ellie is signed near the zipper, next to a lopsided smiley face.

        I get a few odd looks when I pile up her bag along with my own, but when I meet the onlookers’ eyes they shrink away like ice in summer sun.

        By seven in the morning, everything’s been packed away into safe hiding holes but the Fireflies themselves, who shuffle and talk amongst themselves.

        Everyone’s got a place to hide- or else a friend with a place to hide- and they’re all just waiting for their dismissal.

        At seven thirty, I stop waiting for stragglers and give the orders to ship out. The Fireflies scatter from the mess hall like pool balls, rushing towards their safe houses in every direction.

        At eight, I’m in my own hideout, this old top floor hotel room with the stairs blown out. There are two big guys with more gun then brain with me, personal bodyguards in case the military decides to actually do their job properly for once.

        I’m not betting on needing them.

        The room’s dark and musty, windows boarded up, the rope ladder that is my only way up and down coiled safely in the corner of the room.

        I settle in to wait, taking a seat on a rotting couch that probably wasn’t even clean before the outbreak. I'm calm, but the two big guys clearly haven’t done this before- they’re restless, shuffling and pacing and fussing impatiently. Their fidgeting is driving me crazy, catching in the corner of my eye like a hangnail.

        I don’t want to tell them to stop-the fidgeting's clearly a nervous tick, and I don't have time for Exercises in futility- so I shut myself in the bathroom, not bothering with the rusted lock.

        Wherever she is, I hope the girl’s found a safe place to hide. Getting caught with a firefly pendant in this city’s worse then a death sentence.

        The kid was smart, though. She’d survive.


	5. The Fourth Morning (Chapter 4)

            I wake up at about three in the morning, when military sirens kick up, screaming through the city in a way that is probably supposed to be intimidating.

            I sit down, staying under the windows, out of sight. Nothing I haven’t done a thousand times before.

            The muscle I brought along with me is a whole different story. They’d spent the day anxious, pacing and finger-drumming, but the moment the sirens start they go stock-still, and I see fight-or-flight written clear on both of their faces.

_Shit._

The bigger guy looks fit to bolt, and you don’t survive doing what I do as long as I’ve been doing it if you don’t know how to recognize when someone was about to do something stupid.

“Hey. You. Big guy. You got a name?”

The guy looks over, jumpy as hell. He works his jaw for a little bit, eyes wide and whites showing, and his buddy steps in.

“That there’s Marv. I’m Rick.” His voice cracks like a damn teenager.

God help me if I didn’t get the two most nervous 6-foot-6 200-pound guys in the whole damn city.

“Alright. Well, if the two of you would sit down under the windows so the military can’t see us, that’d be great.”

Marv just stands there, huge ham-hands clenching and unclenching.

I’ve got to remember to improve the training for new Fireflies - freezing up like this anywhere else would be a death sentence.

            And all because of some sirens.

            I hope the other new Fireflies are doing better then this. I’m sure most of them haven’t been through any raids yet. They must be terrified.

“Hey. Marv.”  

No response.

I clear my throat, bring out the barking-orders voice.

“ _Soldier_.”

His head swivels like a fucking owl’s, wide eyes locking onto mine.

“Sit the fuck down. And don’t make me ask you again.”

He sinks against the wall like a sack of meat, slumping beside his buddy.

            At eight AM, the sirens cut off abruptly, and both of my useless bodyguards stand up straight away, like the think the raid’s over.

            I have _got_ to tell someone to train these assholes better.

            I motion for them to get down, hissing curses, but they’re so jacked-up on adrenaline that it takes a while for my message to get through, and by the time they’re sitting back down it’s too late.

            I can hear soldiers yelling on the streets below, demanding that we turn ourselves in, firing shots up towards the room.

            Every single bullet goes way wide- I’m not even sure any of them get to this floor of the hotel, but it’s only a matter of time before they try and find a way up.

            It figures that after all this time I’d get killed in a routine military sweep.

            I get as low as I can and grab my gun and hope to hell they don’t care enough to come up here.

            I strain to hear any signs of activity, try to stay as quiet as possible.

            Even breathing seems loud.

The  _extremely heavy breathing_ of the two guys sitting next to me sure isn't helping.

            At ten in the morning, the military has apparently had enough, and I hear their truck rattle away.

I stand up and shoot after them once they’ve gone out of earshot, yelling insults. Gotta look brave for the muscle.

            Rick and Marv yell obscenities and give the back of the military the middle finger. I laugh, pent-up adrenaline and draining tension making me feel stupid and invincible.

            We wait another couple hours, to make sure they’re really gone.

At one PM, I uncoil the rope ladder and make sure the big guys go down first. Just in case.

At two PM, we’re back at camp, adrenaline long gone.

            I’m smart enough that I know I got damn lucky.

            I’m only still breathing because the military got lazy. Letting those big guys get seen should have been a death sentence.

            But hell, I survived. And it’s always good to have a reminder of what the world’s like, once in a while. That’s the last time I let anyone else pick my bodyguards for me, that’s for certain.

            Learn something new every day.

            I just hope the other new Fireflies did better then my muscle did.

            Or at least got as lucky.

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since the last update, but we are now back in action.


	6. The Fifth Morning (Chapter 5)

            I wake up as the last of the stragglers make their way into camp, talking too-loud, all bravado and wild eyes, wandering in with the sunrise.

By the time the base has settled into a normal rhythm again, it’s nearly noon, the nervous babble and disorganized wandering and quiet mourning dying down as adrenaline fades.

            Most of the Fireflies made it back safe, but too many didn’t- new recruits, all of them- and I can see the empty spaces they leave more then I ever saw them when they were here.

            Not making it back safe has become something of a habit for new recruits, as of late.

            The girl’s duffel bag is still sitting on my bed where I’d thrown it the moment I got back, where I’ve been ignoring it ever since.

            What little I have has been squared away, unpacked and folded neatly back into place.

            But one look at Riley’s duffel bag and my skin crawled and my hands itched, and I had to get out for a moment.

            Was it immature and cowardly? Yes.

            But I’m the leader of the Fireflies, and if I want to watch the newest recruits drill instead of throwing out a bag of clothing like I should be, I can damn well watch the newest recruits drill.

            I watch them learn to shoot properly, erasing years of doing it wrong, of hard travel and self-taught survival, eyes bunched at the corners, too-stiff, over thinking, eager to please.

            Unwanted and unexpected, pride swells in my chest, watching these street rats, lean and hard with the road.

The new recruits were all strays, living months or years on the road, and in shows in their scars, in the way they all wear their hair short, in the way they flinch at loud sounds.

            And here they are. Here they are learning that fight-or-flight isn’t one sided, they had come to _me_ to fight, these lean-hungry people who have seen enough fighting to last a lifetime joined up- out of duty or desperation or idealism, I don’t know- but here they are, all fighting for what I told them to believe in.

            Watching them now is a reminder I don’t want.

            These people are relying on me to be the light they’ve been looking for, and if I can’t even look at a duffel bag I have no place leading them.

            I nod to their trainer, a hard man who snaps to attention like a wind-up-toy, and the new Fireflies all flinch or offer sloppy salutes, off-time and out-of-practice, and for the first time in five days I feel this _hope_.

            They are why I’m doing this.

Somewhere around four Pm, I’m in the girl’s room, duffel bag in hand, and I make the bed up neat, putting everything back just where it came from, packing clothes into drawers, stuffing the duffel bag back under her bed.

The dinner bell rings, and I stand up, following the crowd to the mess hall, listening to them talk and joke and I _know._

For the first time since the girl left, I know why I’m doing this.

I can’t give up on the Fireflies.

I _won’t_ give up.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for the delay. Motivation has gone to shit lately, and Marlene's voice is hard for me to capture, especially when she's not being a complete hardass. Thanks for sticking with it, and for all the support. I'll finish this, I swear.


	7. The Sixth Morning (Chapter 6)

            I wake up early, and the camp is cold and still with dawn, and all is as it should be.

            A feeling of _right_ settles over me, of this-is-how-it-should be. The air is grey and soft and quiet, and I can see my breath, and it feels like locks clicking into place.

            I’ve always been a morning person.

            The guard at my door is half-asleep, snapping off a sloppy salute when he sees my door creak open.

            The few other people awake are drowsy and dull-edged, and after the frantic energy of the last few days, it’s nice to bask in the calm, even just for a short while. So I let messy salutes and bleary eyes slide, and I might even _smile,_ once or twice. 

            The early-risers do salute when I pass, but otherwise they don’t notice me much, and that’s fine by me.

            That’s good, actually. I have a call to make that I don’t much want them overhearing.

            I find a secluded corner near the border of camp, settle my back against the perimeter fence that is, in theory, electric. We never have the gas to spare to run the generators for it. Haven’t for a long, long time.

            I check that there’s no one around to hear me, and I call in a favour.

            My boarding school contact picks up her radio fast enough, sounding irritable and fresh-woken when she greets me. 

“Anna.” She says, and I wince at the alias.

“Any word on the girl?”

           I hear her mutter something that sounds an awful lot like “ _good morning to you too”_ , then she clears her throat and says

“No one’s seen any trace of her for about a week”.

          I chew on that, trying to figure out where she- _they_ \- could have gone.

“Is that all?”

            I nod, sharply, realize she can’t see me.

“Yes, thank you. Carry on.”

The woman grunts, and if she was one of my own I’d bring out the drill-sergeant voice, chew her out for disrespect until she cowered and apologized, but I let the radio go dead instead, lean my head back against the fence.

            I worry that they’ve run away. Fled town with nothing but a stolen gun and each other, and in this world no one knows more then me that you can’t survive on affection. Friendship'll only take you so far.

            I worry that they _haven’t_ run away. That somehow, something had gone wrong. That they’d gotten stupid or unlucky, that they were dead or dying in the corner or some shithole or another.

            And I promised myself I wouldn’t give up on Abel, promised I’d hold out hope, but I’ve never had a very good imagination, and there are only so many outcomes I can think of that don’t add up to a broken promise and two undersized corpses.

            The camp is waking up around me, people chatting and getting ready for the day, and I shove myself to my feet.

            Either she was coming back or she wasn’t. For now, I have a group to run, soldiers to inspire, governments to reinstate.

            There would be time later to worry about broken promises to old friends, about dead fireflies. But for now, it would have to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't checked out the other part in this series, Gone By Morning, you should do that. These fics are meant to be read at the same time. Otherwise, have a good day. Updates will be more frequent until we're done. Which should be pretty soon.


	8. The Seventh Morning (Chapter 7)

            I wake up to the usual bustle of camp in the early morning, and when I leave my room everything seems _right_.

            That’s two days in a row, now. Must be some kind of record.

            At seven AM I sit in on breakfast, let the Fireflies see their leader.

            At seven thirty I oversee military search drills, saying “Sit down and shut up” So many times my throat dries, but by eight thirty I’m confident there’ll be less bodies at the end of the next military raid.

            At eight forty five I check in with bases in other cities, take lists of casualties and (much shorter) lists of victories.

            At noon I eat lunch with the soldiers, hear them talk and laugh and remember what being a grunt was like, being bright-eyed and part of something bigger.

            I clap a new recruit on the back when I leave the mess hall and he looks star-struck.

            I write letters and commission propaganda from one pm until six, and (reluctantly) attend dinner with dry, aching eyes.

            At eleven PM I’m lying in bed and I realize that things are more or less back to normal.

            That I didn’t spare a thought for the girl all day.

            Quite without noticing, I’ve switched from worry to mourning, a week of concern giving way to a day of eulogy.

            And, somehow, it feels like this is for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one this go-round, but there's no point in adding extra text just to make a chapter longer.


	9. The Eighth Morning (Chapter 8)

  
        I wake up as a patrol is returning to camp, limping in with the sunrise.  
  
        They're filthy and battered, clothes turned grey by dust and sweat and rubble, torn in places, holes that speak of gunfights and run-for-your-life, of fabric worn so long it throws up it's hands and gives in.  
  
        Each of them has at least one filthy, yellowing bandage. Old, rotting gauze looted long after it's best before date, smeared with dirt and sweat and god knows what else.  
  
        The patrols usually spend some time in the med bay after they get back.  
  
        They're practically tripping over their own feet, and when they stagger through the gates they all just sink to the ground and slump against each other.  
  
        They're too tired even to salute when I approach, grimy faces made identical by wear-and tear turning to look my way.  
  
        I didn't notice, before, but one of them's missing a hand at the elbow, stump swaddled in bandages. He looks fevered, but I can't tell if it's from infection, or from Infection.  
  
        Sometimes, a capital letter makes all the difference.  
  
"Welcome back, you three."  
  
        The least exhausted of them nods to me, eyes fighting to stay open.  
  
"Why don't you all join me in the mess hall? You can give me a report while you eat."  
  
        That, at least, is enough to get them on their feet. They practically drag the armless man upright, and help him stagger to the mess hall.  
  
        It's near-empty this time of day, and I grab  what I can find, bring plates of leftovers back to the patrol. Their eyes have gone wide as saucers.  
  
"First thing's first." I gesture to the amputee. "Is he bit?"  
  
        The two 'healthy' fireflies spring to their feet, fire burning through the exhaustion in their eyes. They're practically feral, all wild dog snarling, all mother bear.  
  
        You couldn't have three more different people. The amputee's this short, broad guy, dark hair and dark skin with a greenish cast to it, though that might be more fever then anything.  
  
        The people protecting him- one of them's a tall, lanky boy, all too-big puppy feet. The other's this tiny, skinny kid with big hair, a little girl with mean eyes. When they left on patrol, they were barely talking, and now these two were practically foaming at the mouth, hunched protectively over their near-comatose friend.  
  
"He lost the arm in an accident" the girl hisses through gritted teeth.  
  
"Soldier." The drill sergeant voice comes out, and I _see_ them wilt. "Is. He. Bit."  
  
        The guy at the table makes this _growling_ noise, gives the other two a _look_ that makes them falter.  
  
"Yeah" the girl says, half a sigh. "He was, anyway."  
  
"We got it in time, though." The boy adds hurriedly, still hovering over his friend.  
  
        I snap to a guard near the door.  
  
"Take this one to the quarantine room. Keep an eye on him."  
  
        The guard helps him to his feet, and I grab his arm when he bustles past.  
  
" _Don't_ let him die."  
  
        The guard swallows, readjusts his grip.  
  
"Okay, come on." He mutters, helps the guy out of the building.  
  
        When I turn back around, the remaining two members of the patrol have sat back down, tucking into their food.  
  
"So."  
  
        The girl comes up for air first, wipes self-consciously at her mouth.  
  
"We didn't see much out of the ordinary, except-"  
  
"The mall." The boy cuts in, plate already spit-clean. "There were lights on in the mall. You could hear infected."  
  
"And gunshots." The girl pipes up, and the boy aims a shove at her shoulder.  
  
"Andy _thinks_ she heard gunshots."  
  
        The girl-Andy, I guess- rolls her eyes, then remembers I'm here and stiffens.  
  
"I heard gunshots, ma'am." She says firmly, but I barely hear her.  
  
        There's ice water in my veins, and I know- I _know_ that it was Ellie and Riley at the mall.  
  
All at once, the normalcy and calm that's been building over the last few days dissolves, replaced by this gnawing, white-hot worry.

       The guilt is back, too, broken promises sawing through my ears like wasps, and I shake my head to clear it.

_Why aren’t you back yet?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP marlene's peace of mind


	10. The Ninth Morning (Chapter 9)

        I wake up with this strange _ache_ in my chest, a hollow feeling I'd all but forgotten about.  
  
        I shove myself out of bed, grinding my teeth. I need to shoot something.  
  
        The guard at the door looks startled when I leave my room, snapping to attention from his half-seated position.  
  
        I blow past him, don't even spare him a look. Not today.  
  
        I wonder absently what the dead analyst would have said about that.  
  
        Nothing good, I'm sure.  
  
        The shooting range is empty this early in the morning, floor littered with bullet casings and sawdust. The dummies and I are the only ones here. I strap a pair of earmuffs on, hear the world go muffled outside my head.  
  
        Maybe I shouldn't wake everyone up with this.  
  
        That ancient, near-nostalgic ache throbs in my chest, and I put a round between the first dummy's eyes, sawdust puffing out into the crisp morning air.  
  
        A wave of _missing_ hits me, and it's sepia-toned, almost homesickness.  
  
        I kill another straw man, three in the centre of mass. I can still shoot, at least. Even if I can't keep my promises.  
  
        How _dare_ she die on me  
  
        The only answer I get is the cough of my gun and a cloud of sawdust from the dummy.  
  
        How _dare_ she leave a daughter behind?  
  
        My ears are ringing even through the earmuffs, and I shake my head, nailing another dummy.  
  
        Every shot rattles through my hands and drains some of the near-forgotten tension from my chest, like pus draining from a wound. It's ugly as hell, but it’ll feel better when it's done.  
  
        I squeeze off another shot, see another puff of sawdust.  
  
        How _dare_ she force me into a promise- one that's impossible to keep in a time like this?  
  
        I'm drawing an audience, early risers gathering to watch me shoot, and I nail another dummy, smoothing the anger from my face. I can't afford for them to think that this is anything but target practice.

        I can't afford for this to  _be_ anything but target practice.  
  
        I shoot another dummy, head, centre of mass, head, centre of mass.  
  
        When my gun clicks dry a member of the crowd whistles a loud, concert-hall whistle that makes it through my earmuffs. I turn and see young, hopeful Fireflies, all starting to clap, and I can't afford this here.  
  
        I can't afford to miss her here, can't afford to mourn her daughter here. Can't afford to mourn my promise here.  
  
        I reload, tuck my gun into the waist of my pants, hang the earmuffs around my neck.  
  
"Stay sharp, soldier." I say, clapping the kid who whistled on the shoulder.  
  
        As I walk away, I feel his awed stare on my back.  
  
        I haven't missed her for a while. Haven't thought about it.  
  
        And I won't today.  
  
        I don't have _time_ to miss her, don't have space in the day. I allow myself one shaky breath and file off to breakfast to be the leader of the Fireflies.  
  
        And when I am the leader of the Fireflies, there is no room for anything else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update today. Plus a very happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Candians!


	11. The Tenth Morning (Chapter 10)

          I wake up when someone bangs on my door, the cheap old wood rattling dangerously in its frame.

  
"Who's there?"  
  
        The knocking stops.  
  
"Um. Carl Dennings. Ma'am."  
  
        I open the door, find a fidgety man standing with his hands tucked nervously behind his back.  
  
"Why are you knocking on my door, Dennings?"  
  
        He pauses. "You were waiting on a teenager to come back to camp?"  
  
"I was."  
  
         He clears his throat. "Well, soldiers on the southern side of camp caught sight of a kid walking in from the old mall."  
  
"Alone?"  
  
        He nods sharply.  
  
"Let her walk in alone. Don't want anyone to help her out."  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
"Good work, Dennings. Go grab some breakfast.”  
  
"Ma'am." He says, half a grin on his face, and scurries off.  
  
       I sit on my bed, stare out my window like I could see Riley coming back if I looked hard enough.

 _Coming back alone…_  
  
"Sorry Anna." I mutter, and feel as if some sort of debt has been paid.  
  
        The Abel kid's been gone over a week, but she'll _finally_ be back come morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a short update after a long break. My apologies.


	12. The Eleventh Morning (Chapter 11)

  
I wake up in the pale, pre-dawn light.  The yard is quiet, the sky soft and grey.  
  
I feel at peace. Riley will come back, and we'll turn the Fireflies around, and maybe, someday, we could even find a cure.  
  
My radio crackles, shrill static issuing from the speaker.  
  
"This is Marlene, what's the noise about?"  
  
"That girl you've been waiting for- it's the Abel kid, right?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
"Respectfully, ma'am-" The radio goes dead for a beat. "Well, this isn't her."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The girl walking into camp, ma'am. It isn't Abel."  
  
I let the radio go dead, curse under my breath.  
  
"Alright, soldier. I want you to get whoever it is locked up. Leave your radio on- we can stand the loss of battery and I want to know what's going on."  
  
"Yes Ma'am."  
  
I let my end go dead, hear the static crackle of microphone on fabric as the soldier on the other end gets moving.  
  
I jog back to my room, stare out the grimy window. I can see most of the camp from here, and it's the best place to watch for people coming through the gate.  
  
The radio crackles. "We're going to get her now, ma'am. I'll keep you posted."  
  
"Thank you, soldier."  
  
"Anytime, ma'am."  
  
I hold the walkie to my ear and hear heavy, baited breath. The particular kind of static that comes with anxious waiting.  
  
Then whispering, words I can't quite make out.  
  
I hear someone shout, hear the voice of a girl yelling and cursing.  
  
"Fuck, goddamnit, she bit me!" That's a man's voice, a Firefly who's words crack with surprise and strain.  
  
"Get the fuck of me, creep!" That's the girl, voice high and full of outrage.  
  
I _know_ that voice. Recognition itches at the back of my mind.  
  
There's scuffling, muffled curses I don't quite catch.  
  
"I GOT HER, I GOT HER!" Someone yells, then the same person curses.  
  
"SHE's GOT A KNIFE!" One of the Fireflies calls, and I hear sobbing and shouting and general chaos, made staticky by the walkie-talkie.  
  
After a moment, the noise dies down again. I hear panting and crying.  
  
"Let me go, what the hell, let me the _fuck_ go, put me _down_."  
  
It's Ellie. I'd know the shape of those curse words anywhere. She made it.  
  
I tun on my end of the radio. "You got the kid?"  
  
The Firefly on the end of the line sniffles with the district, wet sound of a broken nose. "Yes ma'am." His voice is thick and warped by the injury.  
  
I wonder how one fourteen year old could give them so much trouble.  
  
"Good. Put her in the lockup for a while to calm down. And go get some rest."  
  
"Yes ma'am. Thank you."  
  
In the instant before I turn off the radio, I hear someone shout in alarm, and then the static cuts out and I'm left with silence ringing in my ears.  
  
I can't _believe_ it's Ellie.  
  
Ellie, who has been missing as long as Riley (And I had all but entirely given up on Riley) and now she's back. In my line of work people that are gone don't come back- they're dead, and they _stay_ dead.  
  
But somehow...  
  
Somehow she made it.  
  
Somehow, that 14-year old promise to keep her safe is still kicking.  
  
I turn my walkie back on, decided. "This is Marlene."  
  
"I hear you." It's the same guy who got his nose broken, voice still thick with blood.  
  
"Bring the girl up here."  
  
There's a palpable pause, hesitation hanging in the air like smoke.  
  
"That's an order."  
  
".... Yes, ma'am." He says, and the radio goes dead again.  
  
I wonder what Ellie could possibly have done to elicit that sort of hesitation.  
  
I suppose I'd find out.

 


	13. The Twelfth Morning (Chapter 12)

I jerk awake to the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, neck sore, back stiff.

I pull myself to my feet and stretch and listen to the fuzzy sounds of distant chaos. There’s muffled shouting, cursing, a _thud_ that rattles my walls and sends plaster dust raining from the ceiling.

The door opens seconds later, ancient drywall cracking at the force of entry. There’s a Firefly with a split lip standing in my doorway, holding Ellie- cursing and snapping- under one arm.

He scrubs blood from his teeth, salutes, and shoves Ellie (Still kicking and spitting) into my room, slamming the door behind him. His footsteps fade at a speed that sounds an awful lot like running away.

Ellie stands in front of me, rubs at a bloody nose with the back of her hand, and stares at me, five feet of red-rimmed eyes and dirt and defiance.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

She just stares at me, nothing but anger in her bloodshot eyes.

            Ellie is _filthy,_ her entire body dirt-smeared and de-saturated. Her shirt is torn and uniformly the dull yellow of sweat stains and dust. Her pants are torn, the skin under them ripped and bloody, dirt mixed with raw wound mixed with scab mixed with scar tissue.

            Every inch of her exposed skin is caked with mud and rust and ash, she looks buried alive, looks clawed-from-the-ruble, stained with blood and sweat and incident rage, every part conscripted soldier, reluctant hero.

“Do you want water? Anything?”

She keeps staring at me, this steady unwavering eye contact that is starting to become unsettling.

            There are two clean tracks down her cheeks where tears have been, and her knuckles are split and bloody, and her nose is bleeding, and her eyes are rimmed with red, and swimming in them is the sort of empty anger you see in someone who has been through Hell.

“Ellie, are you okay?”

Her lip curls into a snarl, and I _understand._ Anger is easy, anger is comfortable, anger is a good way to hold yourself together. It’s something to drown your sorrow in, and nowadays it’s a hell of a lot easier to find then alcohol.

So I’m not exactly _surprised_ when she lunges for me, the dull anger in her eyes flaring bright-hot, curses on her tongue.

“ _Is this what you wanted, Marlene?”_ She spits, and she’s shoving up the sleeve of her shirt, waving a bloody wrist in my face, a wrist messy with pus and scab and under it all-

My gun is out before I can think about it, and I‘ve got Ellie pinned to a wall with the barrel to her temple before she can blink, and there’s this _grin_ on her face, and tears in her eyes, and I wonder when she last slept.

“Do it.” She goads, eyes boring into mine, bite mark weeping pus and warning signs. “You already killed Riley, what’s one more?”

She’s still _smiling._

“ _DO IT!”_ She hollers, loud enough to wake the dead, and I let my arm slip back to my side.

“I’m so _sorry_.” I say, because I don’t know what Hell she’s seen, but I reckon it’s more then any fourteen year old ought to. I say it because Riley’s not back. I say it because of the angry red bite mark, all expiration date, all life sentence.

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE SORRY,” Ellie shoves me, hard, and I let her. “I WANT YOU TO KILL ME.”

I feel my heart break along with my promise, because I said I’d _protect_ her, and this- this isn’t a whole person, any more.

Ellie pushes me, again, but there’s no malice in it.

“I’m not going to kill you, Ellie. Take a seat. I’ll get you some water, and-“ And I haven’t been this out of my depth for years. Running the Fireflies is cake compared to trying to soothe this angry, broken teenager, a teenager who could be hours from death.

She stares at me, hard, takes the gun out of my belt and presses it into my hand.

“The fungus won’t do my the _courtesy_ of killing me, so _finish the damn_ job, _Marlene.”_ It is all cold anger, all last resort, and I put my gun down.

“Take a seat, Ellie.”

“NO.” There is fire crackling under her skin. I meet her eyes. She sits, fuming. Stands a second later, pacing, pacing. I see blood soaking through the cotton of her shoes, wonder how bad her blisters are, how long she’s been walking.

“Are you infected?”

“Immune, actually.” She says, mockingly. “Does it make a difference? You won’t do it anyway.” A snort. “Coward.”

“Ellie. You were bitten. How long ago?”

She sneers. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” It is so vengeful pre-teen, so empty spite, and _pity_ wells up in my chest like bile.

“I’ve got a room you can sleep in. Somewhere to get cleaned up“

She looks away, directing a glare somewhere near my feet. “Is that an order, _Ma’am_?”

“The room is this way.” I put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder, feeling clumsy, too-big in a too-small space, relived when she shakes me off.

“I can walk.” She hisses.

We walk down the hall in silence, and I can feel her _seethe_ beside me, feel the out-of-control, boiling-over anger just under her skin, feel her shake and rage and know she’s about to cry, know she wouldn’t want me to see her tears.

The room is spare and it locks from the outside, but she sinks onto the bed like oasis after days of desert, and I close the door and flip the latch and hope she’s the sort who’s wounds turn to scar tissue quickly.

In this world, you don’t have time for grief. Not anymore.

Not when you’re bitten.

I hear Ellie start to sob through the thin walls, hope she gets better, wonder how long she has to live before the fungus takes her.

I suppose I’ll have to be the one to put her down, when she turns. Can’t have another Firefly risk their life because I cowed out of pulling the trigger.

I file the thought away, take a deep breath, and get back to the rest of my day.

She’ll turn when she’ll turn, and my fretting won’t help a bit.

And in the meantime, I have a rebellion to run.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's long, comparatively, and we're really approaching the end now. Thanks for reading, if anyone still is, and happy holidays.


	14. The Thirteenth Morning (Chapter 13)

I wake up feeling relieved and vaguely guilty, like the world’s righted itself but I am still responsible for some of the bad in it.

So not that far off from normal, really.

There are three perfect spots of blood on my floor, dried by now, a reminder of what- _who_ \- I couldn’t _quite_ save.

I call for breakfast to be sent to her room, clean clothes, water, I am _seconds_ away from going into Ellie’s room to check on her when I hear her crying, and I’m not dealing with this.

Not today.

I walk fast enough that the sound of my footsteps drown out the sound of her sobs, let my feet carry me where they will, end up at the shooting range with a pistol in my hands when I realize where I am.

It's probably for the best. Shooting straw men will be good for me today.

I get off three rounds before I realize I’m not wearing headphones, the echoes of gunshots ringing through my ears, face gone hot with the cacophony of spent bullets.

I strap earphones over my head, hear the whole world go muffled and far away, nothing but that incessant, post-noise _ringing_ to keep my thoughts company.

I shoot until my fingers are numb, arms sore with the weight of my gun, palms stinging with recoil.

_Why couldn’t I kill her?_

I slaughter another straw man, waste bullets, waste time, and it feels good.

Sooner or later, I’m going to have to kill that little girl.

But for now, I’ll settle for scarecrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The irony, of course, it that Marlene does eventually have to kill Ellie)
> 
> This one's short and sweet. Didn't have anything else to say.  
> Also, happy Valentines day, and 1-year Left Behind anniversary! This DLC was phenomenal, and I hope to god I'm going it justice.


End file.
